Murder in Hell's Kitchen (10 page)

10

IT WAS THE kind of high that only a discovery like this could produce. Jane took a file folder with the phone numbers, the Soderberg autopsy, and some notes. She would be too busy tonight and tomorrow, not to mention unpacking on Sunday, to think about work, although she was sure there was nothing else she would think about all weekend.

At home she ate what was left in the refrigerator before packing the remaining things she saw lying around. Then she took the subway downtown to Lower Manhattan to find the address where Jerry Hutchins had lived.

The trip took her to an old manufacturing building that had been broken up into residential lofts and rented out. The elevator was one of those precarious jobs with a Peele gate, the top half of which rose while the bottom half dropped. It made as much noise as an old truck as it went up to the fourth floor. As she manipulated the gate, someone opened a door to the loft.

“Coming to see us?” He was in his twenties, with a neatly trimmed blond beard complementing blond hair that could have used scissors.

“If this is four, I'm in the right place.”

“Come on in.” He swung the door wide and Jane went inside. “Anyone special you're looking for, or are you just killing time?”

She took her ID out and showed it to him, watching the frown form on his smooth forehead. “I'm looking for Jerry Hutchins.”

“You called.”

“Yes.”

“You didn't say you were a cop.”

“Are you Al?”

“Al's inside.”

About half the loft was what you might call a living room, with a kitchen on the wall that divided the room from what were probably bedrooms in the back. The shaggy blond walked over to a small, dark man, also in his twenties, and whispered to him. The dark man got up from his canvas sling seat and walked over to Jane. He was a head shorter than she and clean shaven. There were men, and a few women, parked on old sofas, pillows, and unmatched chairs all over the room. Some of them began to watch.

“I'm Al. Do I know you?”

He had a strong voice for a little guy. On the phone she had imagined a bigger and older man.

“I'm Det. Jane Bauer, working on a special task force. I'm looking for Jerry Hutchins.”

“I told you on the phone I didn't know him. He doesn't live here.”

“Where does he live?”

“I don't know. One of the guys said—”

“Which guy?”

Her brusqueness had effect. His self-assurance melted a few degrees. “I think it was Moke.” He looked at the shaggy blond for confirmation. The blond shrugged.

“Can you take me to him?”

“I'm not sure.”

“This is police business.”

“Lemme look in the back.”

She waited, wondering if there was a back stairway he might decide to disappear down, but he had to know it was a bad move. Around her, the group was drinking beer, eating out of McDonald's bags, and doing a lot of talking.

“OK if I go?” the blond asked.

“What's your name?”

“Sal. Sal Fortina.”

“You live here, Sal?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You work, Sal?”

“I'm an actor—sort of.”

“You know where I can find Jerry Hutchins?”

“No, ma'am.”

She wrote his name down. “You can go. Thanks.”

When she turned back, Al was leading a sleepy-looking young man with a red beard. “This is Moke. Moke Beardsley. He's the one who said this Hutchins guy was in Omaha.”

“I'm Det. Jane Bauer, Mr. Beardsley. Can we talk somewhere?”

“Yeah, sure.” He led the way out of the loft, where Sal was still waiting for the elevator, which was ascending noisily. When he had departed, Redbeard yawned.

“I'm looking for Jerry Hutchins.”

“Jerry lived here, maybe . . . I don't know how many years ago. A few. That's all I know.”

“Where did he go when he left?”

“He told me Omaha.”

“He give you an address?”

“What, in Omaha?”

“Yes, in Omaha.”

“No.” He said it almost angrily. Jane moved a step away from him. His breath stank. “He lived here and he left. That's all there was to it.”

“The New York State Division of Motor Vehicles sent Jerry Hutchins a driver's license to this address a few months ago. You have any idea what became of it?”

“Why should I?”

“I think you sent it to him.”

“I didn't send it to anybody.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I don't know anything about it.”

“You want to come downtown and talk about it?” She wasn't sure where she would take him; her office was closed for the weekend. And she was downtown already. She hoped he didn't notice.

“What do you want from me?”

“The truth. I think you sent him that license.”

“What if I did?”

“If you did, I think you better tell me about it. Then you're off the hook on this.”

He scratched his head, making Jane feel itchy. She had him and they both knew it.

“All I can tell you is, he called up one night and I answered the phone. That's all I did, I answered the fucking phone. This guy says he's Jerry Hutchins, he useta live here, he's coming back soon, and he wants to renew his license. He says the renewal form should be coming here soon, would I put it in another envelope and send it to him?”

“He said he was coming back soon?”

“That's what he said. He gave me an address in Omaha.”

Two people walked out of the loft and rang for the elevator. It crept up to the fourth floor, and Jane waited till the couple were on their way down before speaking again.

“Then what happened?”

“He was right. An envelope came from the DMV. I put it in another envelope like he told me and sent it to him.”

“How did he get his license?”

“He sent me back an envelope inside an envelope all stamped and everything so I could drop it in a mailbox. I did. A coupla weeks later, his license arrived. I put it in another envelope and sent it to him.”

“What did you get for your services?” Jane asked.

He scowled. “He sent ten bucks in the first envelope. OK?”

“It's fine with me. Did he ever show up here?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Let's go inside and you find me the address in Omaha.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Mr. Beardsley, I'm very serious.”

“I don't know what I did with it. It could be anywhere. I could've thrown it out.”

“Why don't we go inside and look?”

She followed him back in. He had become docile, and she thought there was a fair chance he still had the address. Maybe Hutchins had promised him another ten if he did another favor.

His room was as disgustingly filthy as she had expected. The smell of unwashed laundry was putrid. He went in while she stood at the door, trying to breathe the air in the hall and keep an eye on him at the same time. He began by moving things, mostly dirty clothes, in a haphazard manner.

“I don't even know where to look.”

“Maybe on your desk.”

“Yeah.” He went over to a table that appeared to have been made of a piece of plywood with a single shallow drawer hammered into the center. He pushed papers and clothes around on the surface, then pulled the drawer open. He rummaged through it as though he expected the sought-for paper to rise out of the debris. He took a handful of stuff and glanced through it without much concern.

“Here it is,” he said, pulling a strip of paper that looked like a supermarket bill out of the junk he was holding. “Jerry Hutchins. Take it.” He walked to the doorway and handed it to her.

“That's not his name,” she said.

“Hey, that's the name he gave me, OK? Maybe it's his girlfriend. That's who he said I should send the license to. That's what I got from him. Now it's yours. That's the last time I do a favor for a guy on the phone.”

“Thank you, Mr. Beardsley.” She couldn't wait to hit the fresh air.

“That's fantastic,” Gordon Defino's voice said, blowing smoke over the phone. “You got a phone number, too?”

“There's something scribbled here, looks like a phone number. I'll call John Grant tomorrow while the movers are doing their thing and let him know. If he's not there, I'll leave a message.”

“What's the girlfriend's name?”

“Looks like Cory Blanding. They'll have to handle this carefully. I don't want Hutchins flying the coop.”

“Maybe you should go out there. He's a material witness at least, and he could be our guy. You don't want to stay home and unpack, do you?”

She knew the answer to that one. “You think Omaha's better than unpacking?”

“I figure almost anything is.”

“I've got something else, Gordon. This is really something. I was looking at the autopsy report on Soderberg late this afternoon. Something about his picture. I thought I'd seen it before. He's a ringer for Arlen Quill.”

“He—” Defino stopped. “Say that again?”

“He's older than Quill, but you put those pictures side by side, Soderberg could be Quill's older brother. I think Quill may have been killed by mistake.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

“You let anyone know?”

“I was the last one out. If I have a chance tomorrow, I'll call McElroy.”

“So you think Otis and Charlie Bracken could have been looking at the wrong homicide.”

“Could be.”

“Who the hell was Soderberg?”

“There's no file on him because his death was ruled accidental. Give Sean something to do on Monday. But we still need Hutchins. He may have killed Quill, realized his mistake, and knew he couldn't hit Soderberg with all the cops around. So he waited six months or so, pushed Soderberg off his stool, and got the hell out of the building.”

“Fits what we know. At least MacHovec won't get any sleep on the job next week.”

“Or us.”

“Right. Or us. If you hear anything else, you'll give me a buzz?”

“I will.”

“Good work, partner,” Defino said. He sounded as if he meant it.

The movers missed eight A.M. but not by much. Jane was dressed and ready, and they arrived and wasted no time getting her worldly possessions out the door, into the elevator, and down to the street. She kept her file folder on the telephone table, her eyes occasionally checking to ensure it hadn't been touched. By eleven o'clock, everything was in the truck except the phone, the table it sat on, and the file folder. She pulled the plug on the phone, leaving the table for the movers, took the folder, and went back for a last check of the apartment.

To her surprise, as she stepped into the empty and somewhat dusty bedroom, tears spilled onto her cheeks. She could see herself in her twenties, Chinatown on her mind, moving Salvation Army furniture into this room, in her thirties welcoming Hack into her bed for the first time. She touched the gun on her belt to try to restore some remnant of toughness but failed. This apartment was her youth; it was Chinatown and Narco and Burglary and the Sixth Precinct Detective Unit where they shared the building with the bomb squad. It was getting her gold shield. It was Hack. It was all things gone. She was moving on to middle age, a respectable job, a life without the man she had loved more than anyone else she had known. She could practically smell him in this room, hear him teasing her, loving her, comforting her. She turned and walked into the hall, wiping at her cheeks.

The bathroom was stark, the irritating stain on the sink just as dark and ugly as the day she first saw it. She opened the medicine chest. The empty shelves were dustier than she had ever noticed. On the second one from the bottom was a bottle of Hack's Motrin. He was plagued with headaches, brought on, Jane was sure, by the guilt of leading a double life. She tucked the small bottle in her jeans pocket and walked out, heading for the kitchen. Maybe the headaches would abate, now that he wasn't seeing her anymore. And maybe not.

“You about ready?” one of the movers called from the door.

“Just checking the kitchen. I'll be right there.”

It was empty, as was the living room. She picked up the phone and answering machine from the floor and cradled them in her left arm on top of the file folder like a child going to school with his books. Then she left the apartment, pulling the door closed behind her. Her right hand curled around the Motrin, she went to where the mover was holding open the elevator door, and she rode down with him.

11

THERE WAS A dial tone when she connected the phone in the new apartment. She kept herself out of the way as the movers reversed their work of the morning, and dialed Omaha.

“Detective Scofield, can I help you?”

“This is Det. Jane Bauer calling from New York.” The youngest of the movers turned to look at her. “Is Det. John Grant on today?”

“Sorry, he's off on the weekend.”

“Can you get a message to him?”

“I can try.”

She dictated it slowly, including her new phone number and the fact that she had a contact for Jerry Hutchins in Omaha. If he wanted more, he could call her. She didn't want anyone else screwing up the works. Grant had done a good job, and whether he moved on this over the weekend or on Monday, she didn't think Moke Beardsley was going to get word to Omaha that Hutchins's cover had been blown. She was confident she had the only copy of the address and phone number.

“I don't know if I can reach him,” the Omaha detective said. “But I'll give it a try. You gonna be around this afternoon?”

“Probably for the rest of the day except to pick up something for dinner later on.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

As the furniture filled the rooms, she liked the apartment even more. The floors were gorgeous. The rugs seemed made for the rooms. When her paychecks started increasing, she would put money into the living room first. By spring it would be on its way.

“Bedroom one or bedroom two?” one of the men asked, holding one end of her desk.

“Two.” She followed them into her study and indicated where to put it. Then she went back to the kitchen and called Lieutenant McElroy.

He listened to her long narrative, uttering only grunts and occasional syllables of pleased amazement. “Fantastic,” he said at the end. “Have you heard back from Omaha yet?”

“I just called them a little while ago. It's possible he won't get back to me till Monday.”

“I think you should plan on going out there,” McElroy said. “I'll talk to Captain Graves about it, and we can get the paperwork started. But let's wait till we see if they can confirm Hutchins lives at that address.”

“I'll let you know if I hear from him.”

“You do that. He could have killed the wrong guy. I like it. You talk to the original detective on the case about that?”

“Not yet. I just saw this at five o'clock yesterday.”

“Fantastic,” he said again.

“I'll call if I hear anything.”

It was three-thirty when she paid the movers. They had all stopped for a bite on the way downtown, so she wasn't hungry, and she wanted to stick around in case John Grant called. There was plenty to do, unpacking clothes and dishes, finding a secure place for her guns, moving furniture to better positions. She was on her hands and knees in the kitchen when the phone rang for the first time.

“Jane? John Grant here in Omaha. Sounds like you've got something.”

“A couple of things.” She detailed them, grabbing a kitchen chair and sitting on it while she talked, the file folder open in front of her on the table.

“Cory Blanding. Can you hold a minute while I check my phone book?”

“Sure thing.”

Pages turned. “There's a Blanding here but it's not a Cory. I'll give them a call and see what I can come up with, but if she's unlisted, she's probably told her family to keep quiet about her whereabouts. I'll try to get into the office for half an hour tomorrow after church, see what I can find. My wife and I are going to a wedding tomorrow afternoon, so I won't have much time, but if I find a number for her I'll give you a ring.”

“That's great.”

“And maybe I'll take a little ride down to where she lives and see what we've got. How do you want to handle this?”

“With kid gloves. If she knows we're on to her, we'll lose Hutchins. I want him as soon as possible and alive.”

“I hear you. I'll call tomorrow before I tie my bow tie.”

She smiled. “Good luck.”

She called Defino and McElroy just to let them know they were still making progress, and then she got back to work unpacking. By the time she was ready to find something to eat, the kitchen looked lived-in.

She brushed dust off herself and went into the living room, standing back from the fireplace to appreciate it properly. Somewhere there was a framed picture of her parents that she would put on the mantel. The more immediate problem was firewood. Where in the city of New York did you find it? And shouldn't she have asked that question before she signed the lease?

There would be no fire tonight, not that she had the energy to build one. But now a nice walk through her new neighborhood, a hot meal to bring back and savor in her new surroundings. And then a good night's sleep. She needed it.

John Grant called on Sunday. “Got her phone number and drove down to see where she lives. It's a two- to three-story complex of small apartments, mostly singles, I'd say. I hung around for a while to see if she'd come out, but my wife likes to get places on time, so I didn't see her.”

“Any name besides hers on the mailbox?”

“Just hers. How do you want to play this?”

“I may fly out there,” Jane said. “My lieutenant suggested it. I can question Hutchins just as easily in Omaha as here, and I'm not sure it pays to bring him to New York.”

“Well, I'll be at my desk tomorrow morning. If you need a hotel room, I can get that for you. Meantime, I'll just pretend we don't know anything about Cory Blanding.”

“That's good. We'll be in touch tomorrow.”

She knew she wanted to be there when they took Hutchins in. It wasn't that she didn't trust them. They seemed competent as well as polite, but the thought of losing Hutchins at this point sent chills up her back. She'd had plenty of experience getting perpetrators out of hiding, but never one so far from home base.

In the afternoon she read through the Soderberg autopsy report but nothing stood out. There were scratches made by the shards of glass that had been a lightbulb, so whether he had been changing the bulb or the killer had smashed one to use as a prop, the glass was consistent. He had suffered a broken arm many years before his death. Other than that he was in tip-top shape with good muscle tone, weight only slightly over the norm. There was no hint at what he did for a living, no indication why he was home in late afternoon when most men working for a living were still at their jobs.

After reading through the report as carefully as she could, she left the apartment to explore the streets of her new neighborhood. There were plenty of restaurants within a radius of a few blocks, although several of them looked expensive. But there were more reasonably priced places too: bars, coffee shops, ethnic eateries that would give variety, and a certain spice, to her life. Just walking past one of them made her wrinkle her nose with anticipation at the fragrance flowing into the street: cinnamon, nutmeg, maybe a whiff of allspice.

In a supermarket window she spotted packages of firewood. She hadn't expected a forest in the middle of a block, but she would prefer to have a bigger supply than half a dozen pieces of wood.

Sean was on time Monday morning, and both McElroy and Graves wanted the team in Graves's office first thing.

“Sounds like you had a busy weekend,” Sean said, opening his coffee. “I thought you were moving.”

“I did. And it was busy. When do they want us?”

“ASAP,” Defino said. “Got your coffee?”

“I'll get it and meet you there.”

Graves's office had no more amenities than the offices of the teams, but it was less crowded. Jane sat in the last empty chair and looked out the window beside Captain Graves. The view was substantially the same as hers. Graves was his usual gorgeous self, well turned out, eyes sparkling. He reached across the desk and shook Jane's hand.

“Sounds like you had a busy weekend,” he echoed MacHovec. “You want to bring us up to speed?”

She did it quickly, not making a big deal out of her trip to the loft on Friday night. “Bottom line,” she said, finishing, “Det. John Grant has an address for Cory Blanding but hasn't seen either her or Jerry Hutchins.”

“But he assumes at least the woman is there?”

“She's got a phone at that address and a mailbox.”

“That's a good start.”

“Jane,” McElroy said, “tell us about Soderberg.”

“Right. I noticed a resemblance between his picture and that of Arlen Quill.” She took them out of the folders on her lap. “I think there's a good chance the killer of Quill hit the wrong man.”

Graves rose to take the pictures. “Amazing,” he said. “They could be brothers. I bet you couldn't tell them apart in profile. Especially on a dark night.” He passed the pictures to McElroy, who made the appropriate noises. The pictures then went on to Defino and MacHovec. They made MacHovec smile.

“What do we know about Soderberg?” Graves asked.

“Nothing,” Jane said. “The ME ruled his death an accident. There was no crime, no file, no investigation.”

“But there should be something in the Quill file,” Graves said. “He was interviewed after the Quill homicide.”

“We'll look at it today.”

“And meanwhile we've got a good lead on Hutchins.”

“I think someone should go to Omaha,” McElroy said. “I'd rather see our people talk to Hutchins than theirs.”

“We don't know that Hutchins is there. We think his girlfriend or whatever she is is there.” Graves looked at the notes he had made when Jane was briefing him. “He could be in another state for all we know.”

“He could be in New York,” Defino said. “The guy who sent him the license said Hutchins was coming back. We're assuming he was lying, but maybe he wasn't.”

“True.” Graves frowned briefly. “But the woman is the key. Unless he's been using credit cards, and he seems to be too smart for that, she's our best bet for finding him. I think Ellis is right. Someone should talk to Cory Blanding. If Hutchins is living with her, that's easy enough to find out. If not, she has to know where he is because she sent him the driver's license. She knows he's got problems and she's careful not to let people know anything about him. But he's gotta have a job, even if he's using another name. And they probably go out together.” He looked at Jane. “You want to go to Omaha?”

“Sure,” she said.

There was a knock on the door, and Annie stuck her head in. “Detective Bauer, you've got a call from Omaha. Sounds important.”

Graves waved her off and she went to her office and picked up. “Bauer.”

“Jane, John Grant. I got a look at our friend Cory Blanding. Don't worry; she didn't see me. I watched her door early this morning and saw her come out about eight o'clock our time. That's just a little while ago. I got a snapshot of her but it may not be too good. But I know what she looks like now. Twenties, light straight hair, glasses, nice-looking but no model.”

“That's great. What about Hutchins?”

“I stayed a few minutes but he didn't come out. But if she comes out with him at night or something, we'll be able to nab him.”

“Good, but don't do it. I'm probably going to fly out.”

“Well, that's just fine.” He sounded ready to roll out a red carpet.

“I'll let you know as soon as I know.”

She returned to Graves's office and gave them the news. “Get yourself on a plane,” he said. “The sooner the better. If we've got cops hanging around where she lives, she's gonna get wind of it sooner or later. Tell Annie to get you a ticket and get the paperwork going. We'll have to expedite it right away.”

“I'll do that.”

“And you two better come up with something good on this guy Soderberg or we're barking up the wrong tree.”

“Right away,” MacHovec said. He crushed his Styrofoam cup with a crackling sound.

The meeting was over.

Annie booked her on a late-afternoon flight, and John Grant gave her the name of a hotel halfway between the airport and the city. “About five minutes either way,” he said. “We're not New York.”

While Annie was getting the paperwork started, Jane sat with Defino and MacHovec as they looked at the Five for Soderberg in the Quill file. Soderberg had discovered Quill's body and left for work before the police could interview him. But Bracken had talked to him that evening, eliciting very little personal information. On the night of the homicide he had been at home from about eight o'clock on and gave the name of the restaurant where he had dinner—alone. It was an inexpensive local place, and Bracken had checked it out. Soderberg ate there frequently and was known there. No one could put a time on when he left, but it seemed to be on the early side.

He was a salesman for an electronics company that checked out, too. He got in to the office early, made calls during the day, and was often, but not always, he was careful to point out, home in late afternoon. That would explain how he came to be changing a lightbulb many months later before the other tenants got home from work. Not that he knew at the time that he was providing this explanation.

Otherwise there was very little in the file on Henry Soderberg. While they were talking, MacHovec picked up the phone and dialed a number from the Five. He listened for a few moments, then hung up.

“Whoever Soderberg worked for, they're not at that number anymore, and there's no forwarding number.”

“Terrific,” Defino said. “We got nothin' and nobody. This guy must've been involved in something dirty. I hope Hutchins knows something. I hope he did it.”

Jane looked at her watch. “I better go now. I've got a lot of paper to process, and I don't own a suitcase, if you can believe that, at least not one I can use. So I have to buy one and get it packed.”